Faithfully
by jessica prescott
Summary: Clint Barton's new partner takes a bit of getting used to. After all, she used to be a Russian assassin. One-shot.


**Faithfully**

" _We were racin', we were soldiers of fortune—we got in trouble, but we sure got around—"_

Guitar chords throb like drums over the fuzzy white static. They pound inside his head, bring up his heartrate faster than it has any right to be, just now. Mission's almost over, Barton. Get a grip on it.

Fingers reach out for the dial on the dash; but something won't let him turn the goshawful '90s trash down.

 _Soldiers of fortune_.

Gold shadows flicker across his chest as a lone street light whizzes past the window. This car is dark, and quiet: too dark, and maybe too quiet. Even Meat Loaf's stupid hopeless voice wailin' from the checkered speakers can't mask the fact that the girl next to him hasn't spoken a word for . . .

His eyes do a quick swivel to take in the dashboard clock. _11:59 pm_ jumps out at him, neat, flashing neon strokes.

. . . close on two hours.

Hasn't moved, either. She could be asleep. Or could be awake.

Could be a lot of things. _Is_ a lot of things, his tired brain corrects. Cold-blooded assassin. Russia's finest. Europe's most wanted. Twenty-four year old redhead beauty. And now . . . thanks to some idiot . . . American government asset, and agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 _Some idiot_.

A slow grin puckers the side of his mouth.

Maybe not such an idiot, at that. S.H.I.E.L.D. recruits all kinds. If that weren't true, a scrawny foster kid who ran off to join the carnival and fell head-over-heels for arrows the way most fall for guns wouldn't have been more than a blip on their radar.

Carny? KGB killer? End of the day . . . who gives a damn?

The girl still hasn't moved a muscle; her rounded, lithe limbs draped carefully over the smooth leather seat like a fine silk rug. One hand curls pale in the darkness, cupped around the knee closest to him. It's too dark to watch her breathing, but he snaps off the radio, and hears it: Slow. Shallow. Gentle.

Every instinct finally merges in agreement. _Asleep_.

Needles and pins prick at the corners of his own eyes, as he squints them toward the curve of the road ahead. Forty-eight hours without sleep'll do it to a guy. You snatch a few winks when you can, where you can—never knowing when your next may come. Just like a carny. Show business or spy business, it's a life on the road.

He feels his grin crinkling again as silent lips form the words of that stinkin' Meat Loaf song. _We get in trouble, but we sure get around_.

A soft gasp cuts through the shadows.

He stiffens, the hairs of his neck standing up.

Another gasp—this one sharper, more tortured. His hands are clammy on the wheel as his eyes swing to scan the girl. The stone body's come to life, or at least the head has; rocking restlessly against the seat, back and forth, back and forth. But he'll lay good money on it that she's not awake.

 _Nightmares_.

He chews the inside of his cheek, heart rate suddenly rising again. She is silent. And then—a half-murmur escapes, something Russian. Language may be strange; but that broken scrap of a whisper means only one thing no matter where you are.

One hand unclenches from the steering wheel, reaches out—freezes. He spits a curse between his teeth. Nerves his fingers to close, firm, warm, over the young assassin's shoulder.

"Natasha." Wild name, and it slips a bit on his tongue.

Maybe shorten it. "Nat."

A quick tremor vibrates through her muscles, under his hand. He hears a small gulp. "Nat. Relax."

She shivers. Head slides to one side. He rolls his eyes back, and then, stuffing down the thought that says, _Barton, you chuckleheaded softie_ , he lets his fingers work down her arm to cover the cold white hand on her knee.

And now Nat goes quiet.

He blows out a long breath. Puffs his cheeks, lets the tension roll off his chest.

The paint on the road gleams pale in his headlights. The damn thing never ends: just stretches on, and on, and on, for forever. But her wrist pulses shallow under his; and maybe there are worse ways to spend an all-nighter, at that.

He grins at himself. And then reaches up to snap on the radio, get some music to drown out this jacked-up, sleep-deprived romantic mush—but his fingers stray right back to hers when it's done.

The second the sound crackles over the static, he knows it's the wrong choice. This time, guitar chords chime like wedding bells.

" _They say that the road ain't no place to start a family . . ._ "


End file.
